I SING the progresse of a deathlesse Soule,
Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not controule,
Plac'd in most shapes; all times before the law
Yoak'd us, and when, and since, in this I sing.
And the great world to his aged evening;
From infant morne, through manly noone I draw.
What the gold Chaldee or silver Persian saw,
Greeke brasse, or Roman iron, is in this one;
A worke t'outweare Seths pillars, bricke and stone,
    And (holy writt excepted) made to yeeld to none.